


Caring is Not an Advantage

by Luna_2015



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, Heat-cycle, M/M, Mpreg, Omega-verse, Slavery, dubcon, heat - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:14:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_2015/pseuds/Luna_2015
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is the World's only consulting dectective. He lives alone until an Omega slave is thrust into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Deal

Sherlock

Title: Caring is Not an Advantage.

Chapter 1: The Deal

 

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AN - Warning: Slavery, Violence, Language, future Mpreg

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Holmes Manor

 

Sherlock drudgingly dragged himself through the magnificent halls of his brother's home.

It was a dark night; Full moon and cold enough to confuse the time of death for any coroner. He was sure that out there, someone was committing a crime interesting enough to hold his attention, or at least exciting enough to alleviate his boredom.

'Damn Mycroft!' Sherlock thought, why couldn't Mycroft just leave him to his life. Despite his brother's claim that he was worried for him, Sherlock regarded this concern was little more than unnecessary prying.

His brother had somehow persuaded Lestrade to prevent him from getting information from, or lending assistance to the police. His first thought was money, but that might not have the reason. Mycroft had too much power to be so predictable. He had most likely influenced someone far above Lestrade.

The police always found the most interesting cases, well, if they had to ask him to help he could often derive enough entertainment from solving these cases to starve-off his boredom if only for a while.

Normally he had clients which sought him out, but lately had hadn't had a single case. Not even those extremely boring ones which involved cheating lovers, missing pets or some other matter unworthy of his time or intellect. 

Perhaps things were just slow in the private investigation department, but He knew that the police were actively working on cases. He had watched them enough at a distance to know they needed help. 

He knew his brother was the reason as Mycroft as soon he started receiving e-mails and texts to meet with him. Not the occasional ones which Sherlock normally just ignored, but many times a day. Then he started sending his minions to pass on the message and later to collect him to bring him to Mycroft's estate.

After weeks of boredom, Sherlock decided to take that trip to his older brother's home to find out what had been so important to Mycroft.

He was shown inside a fireplace lit sitting room by the long time butler.

“I'm glad you decided to come. I was starting to wonder.” Mycroft spoke to him from a high-back posh chair next to the fireplace. 

“You just can't let me live my life can you?” Sherlock retorted.

“Can I get you a drink?” Mycroft offered. “Myfanwy!” he shouted over to a dark corner. “Get us both a both a glass of scotch.”

Sherlock was surprised to see something, no someone, move out of the corner and toward the bar. It was too dark to gather any visual details, but judging by the sound of the feet hitting the foot this person was barefoot and by the uneven walk, they had some type of limp. A cane too by the sound. Wood. He could also estimate this person was heavy enough to be an adult, but meek enough to deliberately walk quietly.

The person brought the drinks over. As they came into the fire light Sherlock could see that it was a he. Dressed in a simple drawstring pants and a baggy T-shirt. On his neck, a collar. Black with some sort of dog tag attached. Fashion? Fetish? or something else? Not enough data to make a conclusion. Sherlock continued to make his observations.

He was small, but rather wider in the shoulders and Sherlock noticed in the hips as well. His hair was a sandy blond and as for the eyes, Sherlock could not tell as they were permanently diverted clearly avoiding eye contact. 

He served Sherlock first. Then he retrieved Mycroft's.

Unexpectedly Mycroft backhanded the man. “You forgot the ice cubes.” 

Sherlock watched as the man held his face where he was hit and quickly apologized, informed his brother that the ice cube tray was empty, then vowing to get some more from the kitchen.

Based on what he had observed Sherlock could conclude that this person was probably not a mistreated minion. This was a slave.

Slavery had been abolished for many years in Britain, but the economics of the country had changed that. With growing citizen debts, came people falling back on bankruptcy. Too many were doing that forcing the government to revive a long dead institution: debtor's prison.

The idea had been generations ago that once someone found themselves in there, the relatives had to pay their debts or they would be left there to rot. 

When this new law came into effect the prison started to fill up quickly. Some of the relatives were able to pay their family member's debts, but most weren't. This caused an entirely new problem. They had all these people in prison who weren't going anywhere and more coming every month.

The solution: Slavery. It wasn't a popular idea. There were protests by various human rights groups, but as these people were technically prisoners they were considered to no longer have any rights given to free law abiding individuals.

“How long have you had Myfanwy?”

“Just over five year.” 

Sherlock took a sip of his drink. Undrinkable without the ice cubes, Mycroft set his drink on a table beside him. 

“Sherlock I called you here for a serious matter. A family matter. As the elder brother these duties fall on me for a number of matters, but I find myself in a difficult situation. It seems that one family Duty must be delegated to you.” Mycroft leaned forward and held his hands together. It looked like a prayer. Coming from Mycroft such an act of asking for...really ASKING, anything was next to a miracle. 

“Which 'family duty' are you referring to?” 

“You're really going to make me explain aren't you? It's the only one not yet fulfilled.” Mycroft lowered his head. “I have been trying to produce children to continue our family line. There has been no success. I visited a doctor. It seems that the matter of my fertility is a great deal graver than I believed. I am theoretically able to father children, but the likelihood is so small that the doctor's have classified me as virtually infertile.”

“I'm afraid you need to be clearer, Mycroft. Are you suggesting I find a wife and have children to compensate for your sperm's inviability?” Sherlock noted a cringe from Mycroft, but ignored it.

“Not exactly. I have been trying to father children for over five years without any results with-”

“Myfanwy.” Five years. It was as long as Mycroft owned the slave. 

“Yes. He is an omega. I bought him for that very reason. Can you not smell him?”

“Are you certain that he is not the problem?” Usually a slave would be blamed for fertility issues.

“No...He had a child very early in his life. ” 

“You are proposing that I assume your previous attempts to breed him?”

Mycroft closed his eyes as if enduring some pain. His wounded pride? “Yes.” 

The door opened Myfanwy entered the room depositing the ice into the small freezer before bringing over the ice for Mycroft's drink. 

“Sit at my feet.” His brother commanded. The slave obeyed. His eyes remained averted. 

“What have I done to make you believe that I want children. Small feet pitter-pattering all through my flat. Braking things. Disturbing my peace. I prefer my solitude or haven't your spies told you.”

“I would not require you to raise the children, only to produce them.”

“So you want my sperm? Well you can't. I insist that you call off your dogs and leave me alone.”

“It doesn't work that way. As an Omega he is only fertile during his heats and he requires... the...assistance of his sexual partner to become pregnant.”

“Of course. I'm not surprised that you could find a omega.”

“It wasn't easy. Gone are the days when omegas were registered and distributed.” Mycroft took a sip of his drink.

“Sold. Or married off for the highest 'bride price'.”

“Essentially yes. As my brother you are responsible to provide the family with heirs.”

“As I said. I refuse and unless you intend on dragging me back here when the slave goes into heat and impaling him on me, your efforts are useless.”

“I'm not doing this because I hate you, Sherlock. I have tried for five years! Look at the slave!” Sherlock turned his attention to the slave sitting on the floor at Mycroft's feet. He was perhaps mid-to late 30's in age. 

“He was not available to the market until I got him. He's probably started his decline in fertility. After five years without success I can't risk his fertility expiring.”

“Well, that's not my problem. I say again call off your minions. I will eventually find a way around your efforts regardless. You know I will.” Sherlock rose from the chair. “Please do not call again.”

Sherlock turned and adjusted his scarf.

“Do you really think that you have seen the full extent of my influence? Sure you will figure out a detour, but I'm sure you will miss those nicotine patches.”

Sherlock turned to face Mycroft. “What do you mean?”

“Well Sherlock. If you leave now without agreeing to my terms, I'm afraid there is going to be a severe nicotine patch shortage which will unfortunately stretch far and wide. Shame really.”

Sherlock's eyes shifted. He wouldn't. “Even you can't do that.”

“There is no limits to the things I can do.” 

“Just out of curiosity what are these terms.”

Mycroft grinned. “He will live with you. When he goes into heat you will breed him. Upon confirmation of pregnancy he will return to me. You brother, can then return to your care-free life free of any responsibility toward the slave and any offspring.”

“Child. Offspring is plural.”

“Yes. Plural. Children. If our parents had stopped at me our family line would have no potential to continue. No Sherlock. You must impregnate the slave at least twice. Boys. Girls are sweet, but we need male heirs more desperately. Three would be better, but I will limit our deal to only two.”

“I have never tried to produce children. I do not know my fertility potential.”

Mycroft looked Sherlock in the eye. “I will take that risk. Do we have an accord?”

Sherlock's eyes were shifting it in numerous directions. He was thinking. Weighting the benefits against the costs. 

Mycroft took a sip of his drink

“Yes. I agree.”

 

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END of Ch 1

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AN: This is AU  
Takes place in the Omega-verse (with some creative licence of my own)  
\- Slavery exists  
\- Omega males can get pregnant, but not impregnate.  
\- Alpha, Beta and Omega females can before pregnant, but not impregnate another.  
\- Alpha and Beta Males can impregnate any fertile female, though only the omegas (Male and female) have a heat cycles.  
\- Omegas have made strides in Equal rights, but are still regarded by many as less than human.   
\- Primary Gender: male/female; Secondary Gender Alpha/Beta/Omega  
\- All the Genders both primary and secondary have scents, with strengths corresponding to their fertility. There are drugs to suppress the production and perception of these scents

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	2. Sold - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank my beta, Lolipop, who fixed all my mistakes and improved the work so much!
> 
> I'd also like to thank all those who left Kudos and comments. I read them all.

Sherlock

Title: Caring is Not an Advantage 

Chapter 2: Sold – Part 1

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AN: I found that chapter 2 was too long, so I had to split it into 

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5 Years ago...

A doctor finished applying the last of the surgical tape to the back of the ankle. He wrapped a cotton medical bandage tightly around using safely pins to hold it. Smiling; he turned to the patient/prisoner. 

“You will need to keep your weight off the foot for at least two weeks or it won’t heal properly. You may also need to re-wrap the bandage if it loosens. This is very important as the ankle needs to be immobilized, do you understand?” 

The young man, ID number 7734027, nodded. 

“You will need to walk with crutches while that tendon in your ankle heals.” 

The doctor’s eyes shifted to the guard visible through the open door. He’d been standing there for nearly an hour now. He knew that he should ask the guard what he was doing there, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

“I’ll have someone get you them.”

With the help of a cane, he stood from his chair.“Can I help you, Tom?” The doctor addressed a man leaning at the door.

“I wish a word with you, Doctor.”

The doctor followed the guard out of the room, only stopping to ask a nurse to bring the injured man's crutches. 

Since this doctor didn't have his own office, the guard led him into the patient hard-copy files room. “Doctor, that prisoner is scheduled to be sold in two days. He can't be expected to remain off his feet for as long as you recommended.”

“That man, needs to wear a weight bearing boot or plaster cast,” the doctor said pointing to the direction of the man known only as 7734027. “The medical department of this place argues when I ask for basic supplies. It took weeks before they agreed that patients with broken legs needed crutches. They feel that plaster casts are too costly and I have to justify every bloody bandaid I use! I'm not even employed here and I take better care of these people than any of the staff! ”

This practitioner was not the typical doctor assigned to this place. He technically couldn't even be called a doctor. Sure, he had gone through medical school and practiced medicine, but doctors must be persons under the law. He was a slave.

Despite this, he was still allowed to use his skills as a healer. The upper management had not assigned him to very many of the slave-training exercises given to the others. With his level of skill they assumed that he would be bought, eventually, by some private medical office or as a private family physician for some wealthy or 'discreet' family. Until then, he was free medical labour.

“We appreciate your hard work doctor, but I don't decide these things,” the guard muttered.

“Then go to your superiors and ask them how much they expect to get for a slave which can't properly walk.” 

“If he hadn't tried to run away that guard wouldn't have had to do what he did.”

The doctor ground his teeth at the thought of the barbaric action. He wondered if the young man knew he was being sold; perhaps that was why he took such a risk? Everyone knew that escaped slaves had nowhere to go. They were implanted with microchips equipped with GPS tracking. There was no way to get off the island without being intercepted. 

“To try to cut the man's Achilles tendon is just cruel. He may never walk the same on the foot again.”

“He won't be able to run either.”

“No he may not.” The doctor knew exactly what the guard was implying. In the healer's opinion, no injury to anyone should be considered an asset. He knew that the guard might even be awarded for the prevention of the slave's escape. The young man's injury may even become a selling point. A slave which couldn't run was less hassle than one which could.

He expected the guard to leave him to attend another patient. “Is there something else? I'm busy.”

“We all appreciate your work. I personally am thankful for what you have done for me. But...” The guard gave him a genuine smile. 

This doctor had saved the guard's life once. Anyone who said that it wouldn't kill you to try new things never had an unknown food allergy.

“But?” 

“...well. I was told that you need to see Doctor Milter, something about the physical records. The ones the prisoners have done.”

“Is Milter accusing me of screwing up the patient info in the documents or something? If he is, that man has some nerve.”

“Not exactly; I don't know what but it has something to do with just your records.”

The doctor suppressed a gulp. He knew what the problem was. He followed the guard anyhow.

The guard led him to an office door with a label on it: M.D. Simon Milter.

Inside sitting at a large solid wood desk was a man, an Alpha, with greying brown hair and brown eyes that held a false veneer of friendliness. 

The doctor-slave knew this man well enough to know that he was both arrogant and medically incompetent. The only reason he was here at the facility was because he knew people in high places; people who could, despite his numerous malpractice charges, allow him to keep his licence and to get a job at the one place the patients couldn't complain. 

Milter looked up from the papers on his desk, “Oh, 8837501, please come in and take a seat on the floor.”

The doctor closed his eyes. There were newspapers laid down. Like he was some filthy thing, too dirty to use the chair - or just not worthy. 

“I do have a name,” The slave-doctor gently reminded.

“No, you do not,” Milter corrected. “Slaves do not have names unless given to them by their masters.”

The attitude this despicable man had of people who found themselves slaves was deplorable, but the slave-doctor keep his mouth shut.

“Given my leg, sir, I think I might stand. It might be a bit too much for me to get up,” he suggested, hoping Milter didn't make him sit on those newspapers. Milter was a doctor, and more importantly a person. He could order any slave under his care to do whatever he wanted them to do.

The incompetent doctor nodded his permission.

“You wanted to see me, sir.”

“Yes. I was looking over your medical records. I couldn't help but notice there were some discrepancies between the tests we initially ran and the ones you were permitted to run on yourself not six weeks ago. In fact your latest results are perfectly average; too average. More importantly there were differences between what we would have expected given your diet and what the results show.” 

“Is that so?”

“More interesting is that the original samples have gone missing. Strange we have all the samples from every other slave except yours has 'conveniently gone missing' twice. Don't you think that's strange, 8837501?

“Not really. That tech Sally, told me that the new assistant has made several mistakes over the last few months. I think he's getting the hang of it now though. It's not something advertised, but mistakes do happen. If you took another look you'd probably find others with similar circumstances.” 

“I doubt it. Do you want to know what I think? I don't think you ran those tests. I think that you falsified the data,” Milter accused him.

“And why would I do that?” The slave-doctor asked leaning on his cane.

“You tell me.”

“Alright, you got me. I was hit by a radioactive bullet and now, I have super powers,” the slave-doctor told Milter straight faced.

“This isn't funny.”

“No, it's not. I’m a doctor and I have people in the clinic which need to be seen to be healed or to be checked over before they can be sold. I saw 8 people before you called me here and I've got 5 more waiting on my duty sheet for the day.”

“You are not a doctor!” Milter said irritated. “You're just working to help balance the budget.”

“And I'm not a double agent either, if you are feeling paranoid, I'm a doctor.” He ignored Milter’s comment, “Just a doctor with standards of ethics. If you are suggesting that I am concealing some illness, or injury, you are mistaken.” He made sure to rebalance himself. 

“I don't like that tone 8837501. Don't forget that you are a slave! Not a doctor; not a person; just a slave.” Milter hissed the last part.

“Maybe, but I still have duty to do. If you want I'll do the tests again and personally give you the results.”

“Actually I have been given permission to conduct my own tests and examination.”

“I'll appeal that.”

“Why?”

“Why? I'm a cripple, invalided home. Anyone with eyes can see me using my cane. I spent enough time healing at a hospital, as a patient, that it really shouldn't surprise you or anyone else that I don't want to spend any more time as one.”

“Well you don't have a choice. The examination will commence immediately. I’ve already confirmed it.”

The slave-doctor didn't like what he was hearing. It was true that he had falsified his data and lost his results. He was in fact hiding something. Something he didn't want anyone to know. It was nothing dark or nefarious, just private.

“Fine.” The slave-doctor agreed, “Let’s go.” Inside the crippled doctor shook with fear.

Milter led him into an examination room where he took tests: Blood, salvia, urine (the arsehole made him urinate in front of him), and examined his body. Poking and prodding at him. He had treated cadavers better than Milter treated him. 

“Nervous 8837501?” Milter arched his eyebrow.

The slave-doctor grinned, hiding his nervousness. “You know what they say: Doctors make the worst patients.”

Milter finished the examination and the slave-doctor was brought back to the slave sleeping quarters.

He gazed at the men he shared the room with. They were of various races, ages and social-economic backgrounds. Somehow they all accumulated a massive debt they couldn’t pay off. 

Some lived far above their means buying expensive things like houses or cars they couldn’t afford. 

Some took out loans for school and couldn’t find a job to repay. 

A few had very practical things like medical bills they couldn’t pay. 

A few people there showed signs of addiction, largely to gambling and some to drugs. 

Others were just plain reckless treating their credit cards like toys, as though the money they were spending was a gift from the bank. 

A couple of them were like him, invalided home. One was missing his right arm.

Everyone had something which led them to the debtor’s prison. Everyone in the room was classified to be sold. The classification was given when no friend or relative was able (or willing) to pay their debt. 

He had a sister he hadn’t spoken to in a long time. She wasn’t able to help him. She had enough financial problems on top of her alcoholism. 

He sat down on his bunk and took off his shoes. 

A few of the other slaves greeted him. 

Just because he was used as a doctor didn't make him any less a slave. He had found it useful. Even the meanest of slaves knew enough to be kind to the only doctor that cared to help them if they got sick or injured. 

The health of the slaves was poor in comparison to the average Brit. They were given just enough for them not to be disgustingly thin, but sorely lacked in protein, vitamins and minerals. As a result when the slaves became sick due to illnesses as simple as the common cold, they didn't recover quickly. The same applied to the injuries many received for 'disobedience', which covered any behaviour in which the slaves displayed any free-will; sometimes just because someone wanted a punching bag. In the end it would always be the word of the free-person against the slave; the slaves never had a chance.

So when the slaves needed some help they usually sought out the slave-doctor to help them. More importantly the other slaves saw him as one of their own and were genuinely nice to him. Sometimes they even let him join in their games, cards being the most popular. 

“Hey Hammy,” a tall red-head alpha male called to him, “Do you want me to deal you in?”

The doctor-slave shrugged his shoulders. “Sure.” He didn't know what fate await him in the morning. He might as well enjoy his time anyway he can.

He fell asleep that night dreading what the people working in the lab might find. He knew that he shouldn't put off those tests, especially while those drugs were still high in his system. He just hoped that the drugs were strong enough to conceal what he was hiding.

 

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He was pulled from his bed in the middle of the night by two guards confirming his greatest fear. They knew! He had done more than falsify his medical data. He was a criminal. He was a fraud. Not professionally, He had earned his medical licence. No, he was a sexual fraud. He wasn't a beta as he had led everyone to believe. He was something of great societal value. He was something which was viewed as inferior, yet coveted. He was the extremely rare, Male Omega.

The guards led him to Milter's exam office, stripped him naked; and then waited outside the door for the examination to finish. 

Milter was waiting for him with a devious grin. Milter donned some gloves and the slave-doctor was made to lie on a table first face down, then on his back. He knew exactly what Milter was looking for and that he would find it. Milter made more checks just to be certain. 

“Well, well. I never would have guessed that Slave # 8837501, our Hammy, was an Omega.”

Milter ran a finger-tip over the sensitive opening of his anus. “How long has it been since someone had you?” The Alpha demanded in a low almost seductive tone. “Tell me is your womb still fertile?”

The slave doctor didn't answer. 

“Well I guess when the suppressants leave your system we will see. You will be begging for it. Oh how you will beg for a knot, any knot...I hope that I get a turn.” Milter mussed.

He felt Milter's hands travel down his body. “You may not have your youth, but when those hormones kick in,” Milter leaned in so only they could hear, “I'd like to play doctor with you.”

He was horrified. His entire body went rigid. All the unwanted sexual advances he had experienced as a youth would be thrust upon him. No...It would be worse for now he was a slave.

Milter leaned down to kiss him. The slave-doctor turned his head to avoid.

Growling Milter grabbed the slave's face and turned it forward. 

“Doctor we have orders to put him into isolation.” One of the guards interrupted. 

The slave-doctor didn't remember hearing the door open, but he was grateful.

Though irritated to have been interrupted, Milter released the slave-doctor to the custody of the guards.

The slave dressed in his prison clothes and took to a room meant for violent persons and locked the door. It was solitary confinement; more for his protection than that of others. It was to prevent men like Milter from getting to him.

He was alone with his thoughts. What would happen now? They knew what he was. Horrible images filled his mind. Many involved being forced into sexual activities with various members of management. He imagined going into heat and having that prick, Milter, fucking him as he begged for more; that one made him feel sick... really sick. He actually bent over convinced that his supper would be expelled.

Thankfully he didn't have long to imagine what fate awaited him as less than an hour later the guards returned.

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END of Ch 2

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End file.
